


A Wizard's Guide to Love and Murder

by MerryHeart



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/MerryHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Monty Navarro discovers that he is a member of the D'Ysquith family, the only Wizarding family to also hold a Muggle peerage, he uses his final years at Hogwarts to begin his scheme to revenge his mother's disinheritance and inherit the earldom for himself.</p>
<p>Also known as The Inevitable Hogwarts AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Visit

The day was grey and miserable, the damp air combining unfavorably with an early August heat wave. The skies threatened thunderstorms and the wind gusted, bullying fallen leaves and scraps of paper into tumbling down streets and circling gutters.

This suited Montague Navarro quite well as he returned home from his mother’s funeral. As the clock chimed half past three, he paused in front of the large, unmoving photograph of his mother that now stood in the sitting room and silently cursed himself for never saving his pocket money to have her wizarding portrait done. It would have been a pale copy of what she was in life, of course, but at least he would have been able to hear her voice again, bright and alive and unmarred by her brief but severe illness. Now all he had left to remember her by was a black-and-white Muggle photograph and a jewel box that seemed impossible to open.

Said jewel box was sitting on the coffee table. Monty was still four months away from turning seventeen, and his mother had always had a strict rule against using magic outside of school, but he was so desperate to discover what she had left him that he pulled out his wand. _–Ministry be damned_ , he thought. _–As a first-time offender they can only give me a warning, and grief is an understandable excuse._ Crouching beside the table, he pointed his wand at the jewel box and whispered, “ _Alohamora_.” There was no sound, no click of tumblers unlocking. He tried the lid; it held fast.

The tears Monty thought he was done shedding began to return. He was about to sit and have another good sob when the doorbell rang.

 _\--Who could that possibly be?_ Surely the Ministry couldn’t dispatch someone to deal with unauthorized magic that fast. Very few of his school friends knew where he lived, though of course the Hallwards lived just down the street. Perhaps it was Sibella? Much as Monty adored her, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see even her right now. He wanted to privately and shamelessly cry over his rotten fortune, as would any sixteen-year-old who had just lost their loving mother and last living parent.

Despite this, he stood up, forced a few deep breaths, wiped his face with his sleeve, and opened the door to find—

“Professor Shingle?”

—standing before him.

“Montague, you poor dear!” She pulled him into a crushing hug. (Several years of watching Professor Shingle wrestle with dangerous plants in Herbology had taught Monty that she was much stronger than she looked.) “I only just heard! How absolutely frightful!” She released Monty and held him out at arm’s length to look him over.

“I—I’ve only just returned from the funeral. This is quite unexpected!”

“No, young man, what’s quite unexpected is the son of Isabel Navarro keeping his Head of House out on the doorstep in this weather!” Lightning forked the sky, and thunder followed close on its heels.

— _That woman’s sense of timing is uncanny_. “My apologies! Do come in. Here, I can take your umbrella.”

“Thank you, dearie. I don’t suppose you were going to offer me any tea?” she said, settling herself into one of the sitting room chairs. “Perhaps a biscuit?”

“Oh, of course—though I’m afraid it will be a moment. I’ll have to put the kettle on.”

“Kettle?” Professor Shingle called after him. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you a good warming charm for tea?”

“No ma’am,” Monty said from the kitchen. “We haven’t used magic at home since…well, since before my father died, I believe. Mother’s wand snapped in some sort of accident when I was small and she…she and Father were so determined to save enough money for all of my school supplies that she never bought herself another one. And when I got my own wand, it never worked well for her.”

“No, I should think not. You certainly resemble your father in looks.” She leaned forward as Monty sat down in the chair across from her. “Though I do see some of your darling mother in you. Merlin’s beard, I knew things were difficult, but I had no idea you were living like Muggles.”

Monty straightened defensively.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Professor Shingle chided. “I met your father several times and thought he was simply the best thing since pumpkin juice.”

“You met him? He died when I was very small, you know. Seven. I barely remember him.”

“I was at your parents’ wedding. That was a grand day. Don’t remember it terribly well; must have overindulged the firewhisky—and I saw him again the day you were born.”

Monty shifted forward in his chair. “I had no idea you knew my parents that well. Mother was in Hufflepuff—”

“And one of the best Herbology students I ever had! Never mind House politics! Rather a favorite of mine, to tell the truth, although of course professors don’t have favorites,” she said with a wink. “Now for Merlin’s sake, how do Muggles manage to wait this long for tea?” Sweeping into the kitchen, she finished heating the kettle with some flames conjured from the tip of her wand. “So, Montague,” she said as she returned with a fully set tea tray, “naturally you know all about your father’s heritage.”

“Yes.”    

“Did your mother ever mention anything about her family?”    

Monty thought for a moment as he sipped his tea. “Nothing. I suppose they must have been a rather unpleasant sort. Hippogriff poachers, or something.”

Professor Shingle snickered to herself, leaving Monty rather annoyed at being left out of some secret joke. “Not exactly. That’s what I came here to tell you about. You’re a wizard, Monty!”

Monty blinked. “…Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ve known that since I was old enough to understand…anything.”

Professor Shingle let out a loud and fairly startling laugh. “No! Wait! Terribly sorry—I’ve made that announcement so often, you see, eventually one just starts to recite the speech without thinking about it! No, no, no, that’s not what I’m here about at all!” It took her a few moments to gather herself and catch her breath. “Now then, Montague. Have you heard of the D’Ysquith family?”

“Yes, of course. There’s Professor D’Ysquith, and quite the handful went through Gryffindor a few years above me, and I believe there were a few Ravenclaws—”

“Only wizarding family to hold a peerage, you know—”

“Believe me, I’ve heard them mention it far too often—”

“Vast wealth, and _so_ much influence at the Ministry, I dare say the Minister himself doesn’t _sneeze_ without consulting them first—”

“I know—”

“And then there’s that magnificent castle of theirs, Highhurst—”

“Yes—”

“You know legend has it that the Four Founders applied to the D’Ysquith family to use Highhurst as the castle to house their Hogwarts pupils, flatly denied of course, D’Ysquith pride being what it is—”

“Professor Shingle!” Monty cried, rising to his feet.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’ve gone to school with D’Ysquiths for five years; I know perfectly well who they are!”

“There’s no need to snap, dearie, though I must say I don’t blame you, you must in terrible shock after the loss of your dear mother…Perhaps you’d best sit down.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“ _Sit_.” Monty found himself pushed down into a chair with the same amount of force he’d seen Professor Shingle use on Snargaluff plants. “Now listen closely, Montague,” she said as she settled back into her chair. “You’re a D’Ysquith.”

Monty considered this. “Your announcement that I was a wizard somehow made more sense.”

“I swear by my wand, your mother was a D’Ysquith.”    

 _—We always wondered if spending so much time with those plants would make her batty_ , Monty thought. _–It seems we might have been right_. “Professor Shingle, my mother took in washing and sewing for the neighbors until her hands bled and lived without magic for much of my life so she could afford to buy me a wand. Does that sound like the life of a member of the richest family in the wizarding world?”

“Alright then. I know you loved your mother dearly and knew her very well. What was her maiden name?”

“Whenever I asked, she said the only named she cared about was...was Father’s.”

Professor Shingle nodded. “I suspected as much. Allow me to give you a bit of history.” She took a sip of tea. “As you know, the D’Ysquiths are the only wizarding family to hold a peerage. They were awarded it centuries ago for services rendered to King Arthur. Of course it was much more acceptable for wizards to be open about their magic back then—just consider Merlin—but as the years wore on the D’Ysquiths found that they increasingly had one foot in the Muggle world and one foot in the wizarding world, and it was a delicate balance to strike to keep the magic secret from the Muggles, while performing the necessary duties of Muggle nobility without other wizards thinking the D’Ysquiths had abandoned their wizarding heritage. Every D’Ysquith child was impressed with the importance of never letting Muggles know their magical nature—who knows what might happen to the magical community if prominent members of Muggle society discovered that an ancient noble family belonged to a race of wizards?”

“It seems rather a difficult position.”

“Oh, yes! And then, about four years after she finished at Hogwarts, your darling mother fell in love your father—a musician who used to play for society balls at Highhurst. So not only was a pureblood—and pure English—witch in love with a Castilian Muggle, a D’Ysquith girl had told a Muggle all of the family’s wizarding secrets. Isabel’s father was furious. He reminded her of her duty as a D'Ysquith and ordered her to wipe your father's memory and stop the romance. She ran off with your father the next day, and within a week I received an owl inviting me to their wedding. The family never spoke to her again.”    

“So they cast her out? Disinherited her?”

“I’m afraid so, dearie. The D’Ysquiths have never been a particularly compassionate lot. Your poor mother didn’t want you to have to bear her burden, but you have the right to know why your life has been the way it is. I’m sure Isabel would want me to remind you,” –she took Monty’s hands in her own— “that she would not have traded you, your father, or the life and love she had with either of you for the whole world, much less the riches of the D’Ysquiths.”

Monty nodded and tried to hold back tears. “Professor Shingle…perhaps you could help me with something.” He picked up the jewel box and passed it to her. “I found this with Mother’s things, but I can’t figure out how it opens. I can’t find a key, and I’ve tried _Alohamora_ —”

“Like this,” Professor Shingle said, pressing a button on the side of the box.

“Oh.” Monty scrambled to peer over her shoulder. “My birth certificate—‘ _Montague D’Ysquith Navarro, born November 9, 1890, to Fernando Navarro and Isabel D’Ysquith Navarro_ ’…And photographs! Moving ones, too!”

“Yes, I had them developed for her...Let’s see…There’s your parents on their wedding day…The three of you when you were a baby…oh, here’s an old one of your mother at Hogwarts! Most of her friends were her cousins—made it all the worse when the whole family stopped speaking to her…Now then, the other girl in this photo would be Hyacinth, and the young man is Adalbert, the current earl. Hyacinth was a Gryffindor—most of the D’Ysquiths were—but Adalbert was in Slytherin. Hasn’t been a D’Ysquith in Slytherin since then, except for you.”

“They were her best friends, and they cut her off as well?”

“Oh yes. When the D’Ysquiths do anything, they do it as a family. And Merlin, are there a lot of them! I can never keep the family tree straight—but apparently your mother could!” She pulled out a family tree inked in Isabel’s neat handwriting. A small note at the bottom read: T _he Earldom of Highhurst is one of the few peerages in the realm that may be inherited through the female line. Women of an older generation fall in the line of succession before men of a younger one; men are before women of their own generation._

“Montague, do you know what this means? You are only eight relatives removed from an earldom! What a prospect!”

“Do you really think it could happen, Professor Shingle? That I could become Earl of Highhurst?”

“Never shut the door on possibility, Montague!” she said, setting the jewel box on the table and getting to her feet. “I should be on my way. I say though—are you living quite alone, then?”

“The Hallward family lives just down the street,” Monty said as he fetched her umbrella and saw her to the door. “They’ll check in with me until school starts, take me to Diagon Alley, that sort of thing. By Christmas I’ll be seventeen. I’ll be alright.”

“Yes, Montague,” she said after a pause, “I daresay you will.”

And with a crack, she Disapparated.


	2. Flying Pigs and Other Shades of Pink

The Hallward family was as big and loud as the Navarro family was small and unassuming. As Monty let himself into their house the morning of their Diagon Alley trip, he smiled to hear the slamming of doors and good-natured shouting of siblings, sounds unfamiliar in his own household but oddly comforting in the Hallwards’.

“Good morning, Monty!” Mrs. Hallward called from her morning tea in the front parlor. “Be a dear and tell Sibella to hurry herself along; it’s a day in Diagon Alley, not a society ball!"

“Yes ma’am,” Monty said as he dashed up the stairs and knocked on Sibella’s door.

“Come in!” a silvery voice called.

Monty entered the room and found Sibella perched in front of her mirror arranging her hair.

“Oh, Monty! You really should announce yourself; I might have only been half-dressed!”

“Well, you should ask who’s knocking on your door.” He bent down next to her. “And don’t act as though you haven’t accidentally-on-purpose let me see you in your corset before.” He turned his head to give her a peck on the cheek, but Sibella, evidently satisfied with her hair, thwarted his efforts by standing up suddenly.

“Would you be a dear and clasp this necklace for me?”

“Don’t forget your bracelet,” he said as he fastened the pink pearl strand around Sibella’s (— _graceful, perfect_ ) neck, then rested his hands on her shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t know if I’ll wear it today,” Sibella said, slipping away from him.

The bracelet in question was in the shape of a silver snake with glittering emerald eyes, biting its own tail. Sibella was the only Slytherin in her family, and fiercely proud of it.

“You must be joking,” Monty said as he watched her pull on her shoes. “You wear it everywhere; it’s your favorite piece of jewelry.”

“Don’t be silly, Monty. Having a favorite piece of jewelry is like having a favorite child; it’s simply not done.”

“You complain all the time that your parents prefer Julia to you.”   

“And see how I hate it! I should never treat my jewels as poorly as my parents treat me!” She paused to study her nails and Monty allowed himself the luxury of rolling his eyes when she wasn’t looking. “Now, were you sent up here for a reason or have my parents become negligent to the point of letting the morality of the household fall into decay?”

“Your mother asks me to tell you that we’re only going to Diagon Alley and that you should hurry up.”

“That shows how much she knows,” Sibella said as she stood to go back to her vanity. “Oh! I seem to have missed the buckle on my right shoe! Would you mind terribly?”

“Not at all!” Monty exclaimed, kneeling down to fasten it.

“Now behave yourself—no squeezing!”

“As you wish,” Monty said, giving her bum a light smack and relishing her squeal.

“You’re terrible!” Sibella pouted, seating herself at the mirror and spritzing on perfume. “It’s just as well I shan’t be spending the day with you!”

“What on earth do you mean? You, Grahame, Julia, your mother, and I are—what are you up to?”

“Wouldn’t you just like to know?” She gave a coy smile.

“Not as much as you’d like to tell me.”

Sibella bit her lip as if trying to decide what to do.

“Fine then,” Monty said. “If you won’t tell me what you’re doing today, I won’t tell you the terribly exciting news I received last week.”

“Perhaps I don’t care about your ‘exciting news’!”

“Then the point is moot! I’ll be downstairs.”Monty’s hand was on the doorknob when he heard Sibella say,

“I’m meeting a friend at Diagon Alley.”

Monty turned. “A friend?” She would never tease him about one of her girlfriends; this person was certainly of the male persuasion. “And does this friend have a name, perchance?”

“Lionel Holland,” Sibella said giddily.

Monty glowered. “So that’s why you’re not wearing your snake. You’re meeting up with a _Gryffindor_ who is very likely the dullest person ever to attend Hogwarts!”

“Lionel is not _dull_. He’s…refined. Doesn’t feel the need to say everything that pops into his head.”

“That’s because _nothing_ pops into his head.”

“You’re just jealous because he’s handsomer than you.”

“Sibella.” Monty gave her a deadpan stare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sibella pursed her lips and squirmed in her chair. “Fine. But he is rich. And he rides the latest model broomstick.”   

“That doesn’t seem to stop him from getting hit in the head with Bludgers as much as he does. I can barely stand five minutes in his company and my attention span is a lot longer than yours!”

“There’s no need to be rude! And what does it matter to you, _you_ don’t have to spend the day with him!”

“You don’t have to spend the day with him either, and maybe you won’t want to after I tell you what I learned last week.”

“Oh, what it is it?” Sibella asked with an affected yawn.

Monty came away from the door to kneel next to her. “Professor Shingle came to visit me a few days ago. She helped me go through some of Mother’s things.” Sibella’s face immediately softened.

“I should have said something when you first came in,” she murmured. “How beastly of me not to. Are you quite alright, darling? I love my mother terribly, much as I say I don’t. I can’t think what I should do without her. And _your_ mother was such a sweetheart, and you losing her at only sixteen…I barely spoke to you at the funeral. I should have called on you sooner.”

“Don’t worry about it, dearest.” He reached a hand up to trace the curve of her neck. “Professor Shingle told me…and my mother’s papers confirm it…Mother was a D’Ysquith. Which means…I’m a D’Ysquith too.”

Sibella gave a small snort. “A D’Ysquith? Like the professor? And the investment company? And the earldom?”

“The very same.”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you that my mother is actually Morgana le Fay—”

“Sibella—”

“—so you know that makes me—”

“—I’m ninth in line to be Earl of Highhurst, I’ll show you the papers if you like.”

“No, no, darling, I believe you.”

“Sibella, do you know what this means? I could be _earl_ one day.”

Sibella gave a full-throated laugh. “And pigs might fly!”

“Would you like me to go and find a pig to levitate?” demanded Monty. “I could do it; I’m as good at charms as you are!”

“But Monty,” Sibella gasped between peals of laughter, “eight people would have to die for that to happen. Be realistic about your prospects.” She gave him a pat on the head and stood up with a rustle of pink taffeta. “I really do think it is time to be going…Do you think,” she said, looking over her shoulder as Monty stood up, “do you think Lionel would mind _terribly_ much if I wore my snake?”

“Sibella.”

“Yes?” When she turned to look at him, Monty caught her around the waist and pulled her in for a kiss, the first real one he felt he had ever given her. She seemed to enjoy it, too—at least, she didn’t pull away, and Monty knew from experience that she would have no qualms about doing that if she wanted to. Her lips were soft and supple against his, and she was so warm, and so _beautiful_ …

They stood silently for a moment when the kiss was through, foreheads almost touching.

“Sibella,” said Monty quietly, “you’ve let me play at being in love with you since we were children, and you’ve never missed a chance to tease me about it. But I think maybe it’s time we stopped playing at it and started—”

“My goodness, would you look at the time!” Sibella exclaimed, stepping away and reaching for her gloves. “We really must be leaving,” she said as she pulled them on. “Lionel’s always on time…So predictable.” It was obvious to Monty that she did not mean this as a compliment. “Wait! Where’s my cloak?”

“Your traveling one?”

“Yes, yes, we’re going by Floo powder and I absolutely refuse to get soot on this dress!”

Monty opened the door of the wardrobe and handed Sibella the cloak in question.

“Thank you, darling! And pass me my silver snake; Lionel will get over it.” She slid the bracelet on and gave a triumphant little twirl. “How do I look?”

“Splendid,” Monty told her in the tone of voice he always used when he was trying to stay mad at her and failing.

“I should so hate to be without you, darling. I hope you never forget that.”

She opened the door with a flourish, and Monty followed her downstairs, smiling in spite of himself.


	3. The D'Ysquith Letters

The sun was beginning to sink behind the gleaming white Gringotts building when Monty seated himself on a bench to have a nice sulk.

The Diagon Alley trip was usually his favorite part of the summer. It heralded the beginning of another year at Hogwarts, it was a chance to run into acquaintances he hadn’t seen for months, and it was a day he got to spend entirely in the company of wizards. Monty often felt isolated during school holidays; though his mother had wanted to spend all of her time with him, she also had a lot of work to do. “You can run along to the Hallwards, sweetheart,” she would say. “I don’t mind.” But Monty, who felt she was alone enough when he was at school, usually declined. She didn’t like the idea of him getting a job, either: “You’re young, my darling. Enjoy your vacations while they last.” So he filled his copious amounts of free time with homework and dozens of books, some of which he would read aloud to his mother while she did mending or laundry. Now he didn’t even have her anymore, and a summer that had promised only to be mildly dull had instead become one of heartbreak and crushing loneliness.

And today, Diagon Alley day, the day that was supposed to herald the end of boredom and melancholy, had, for the first time, disappointed him.

He supposed the blame lay with Sibella, although as he was inclined to lay her failings on someone else if at all possible, he directed his anger at Lionel Holland instead. No sooner had Sibella appeared in the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron than Lionel was there, hand extended, to help her accomplish the difficult task of stepping two inches down from the hearth to the floor. Sibella tucked her arm through his, and there it had remained all day, as Lionel made endless inane comments about Quidditch and broomsticks and oh-my-wouldn’t-this-be-a-lovely-day-for-flying. Not even Monty’s offer to buy Sibella anything she wanted from Honeydukes’ Diagon Alley shop would tear her from Lionel’s side.

“Merlin’s beard, I couldn’t!” cried Sibella. “Honestly Monty, are you _trying_ to make me ruin my figure?”

“What a shame that would be!” Lionel exclaimed. “You have the tiniest waist of any witch I’ve seen, and the prettiest face, too.”

How Monty had wanted to hex him.

“There’s no use making yourself miserable about it,” Sibella’s older brother Grahame told Monty as they walked to Flourish and Blotts. “She gets a kick out of pitting boys against each other, that’s all.”

Monty considered this as he kicked a pebble near his foot and watched it skitter across the street. Maybe he could have accepted that on a day he hadn’t kissed Sibella, on a day where she hadn’t made him think, just for a moment, that her feelings about the two of them were as fervent as his own.

Monty sighed and cast his gaze around for the Hallwards; surely it would be time to go soon. He didn’t feel like considering what would be worse: Sibella sending him home immediately or inviting him to stay for supper, only to make him listen to her talk about Lionel from soup to dessert. He stood with a stretch and a yawn, taking notice for the first time of the building across the street. Though not as imposing as Gringotts, it was made of the same polished marble, and over the doorway, in shining brass letters, was written:

  
_D’Ysquith Wizarding Investments_

  
_—Didn’t Sibella mention something about that this morning?_

“Monty!” Sibella had appeared next to him with his realizing it. “Gather your things; we’re going home.” When Monty didn’t respond, she tugged at his arm. “Whatever are you staring at?” She followed his gaze to the handsome building opposite. “I don’t see what’s so remarkable. Wizards with money want advice on how to invest it. I think it all sounds horridly dull.”

Monty glanced sideways at her and quirked an eyebrow. _—Lionel Holland may be rich, but_ he _doesn’t have a connection to the most lucrative wizarding company in England._

“Whatever are you looking at me like that for?” Sibella demanded.

“Oh, I’m just…wondering where Lionel is,” answered Monty with an air of false innocence.

“And what’s that to you?”

“Nothing at all. I just don’t fancy him taking a Beater’s bat to my head.”    

“Well, if he ever tried I should certainly forbid it.”

“That does not comfort me as much as you would like it to.”

“Who says I’m trying to comfort you at all?”    

“You’re inscrutable.”

“And you’re insufferable! Now get your things or you can Floo home by yourself!” She flounced away with a little hmph. Monty quickly gathered his bags and caught up with her, snaking an arm around her waist and inwardly beaming when she didn’t push him away.

***

When Monty returned home, he unceremoniously left his purchases on the floor of the sitting room and snatched up his mother’s jewel box. He ran up to his room, lit the lamps, and pressed the button to raise the lid. Carefully removing the papers, he set the photographs and his birth certificate at the corner of his bed, and began to sort through the letters. They were all addressed in his mother’s handwriting to various members of the D’Ysquith family; the wax was impressed with the D’Ysquith seal.

Monty found three letters addressed to Asquith D’Ysquith, Sr., the chair of the investment firm. The first letter was written shortly after his mother was married, entreating Asquith to defy the wishes of the family and stay in contact with her. _“We have always been on such friendly terms, Asquith. Believe me when I tell you that my love for my husband has in no way lessened my love for you or the rest of our family...”_ The second letter informed him of Monty’s birth: _“We are delighted to welcome our dear son into the world, but the past few years have not been easy on us, and we would be forever indebted if you would have but a little pity…”_ The final letter was written after the death of Monty’s father: _“Dearest Asquith, I am puzzled and saddened by your lack of response to my previous letters. It is now my sad duty to inform you of the death of my husband, and I beg you to have mercy on your poor cousin, alone in the world with a young son to raise…”_

Monty felt tears sting his eyes and tried to determine if he owed them to sympathy for his mother’s growing desperation or anger over Asquith Sr.’s cold-hearted silence. He felt the heat of rage bloom in his chest like glowing coals, but steadfastly tried to ignore its burning as he sat at his desk to compose the following letter:

    _Dear Sir,_  
 _I am the only son and heir of your late cousin Isabel D’Ysquith. I am a rising sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and I am beginning to consider career options; however, I have few connections. I have achieved nine O.W.L.s and I refer you to any of my professors for confirmation of my honesty, dedication, and application to hard work. I hope you will provide me with advice regarding my future employment, and I should be honored to intern at your firm, should you have such an opening._  
 _Respectfully yours,_  
 _Montague D’Ysquith Navarro_

He addressed an envelope and tucked the letter inside before locating his mother’s D’Ysquith signet ring at the bottom of her jewel box. He pressed the seal into hot wax with satisfaction and considered how best to deliver the letter to Diagon Alley. Monty had no owl of his own and there was no point in renting one, as the nearest wizard post office was located next to the D’Ysquith firm. He was likewise reluctant to deliver the letter by hand and in any case had no desire to travel halfway across London to do so.

There was only one option, and it must be done, regardless of all teasing that might ensue. He could only hope she hadn’t retired to bed…

Snatching up the letter, Monty raced down the stairs and out the front door, pausing only to lock it. He all but ran down the street to the Hallwards’, quietly hopping their fence to sneak around to the back garden. Sibella’s second-story room wasn’t hard to pick out, as it was the only one with a balcony. Monty still wondered how she managed to not only to avoid sharing a room with her younger sister Julia, but to get the best room in the house. He suspected she got it, as she did so many things, by sheer force of will.

He picked up a pebble from the garden path and launched it at the French doors a floor above him. When there was no response, he tucked the letter in his jacket pocket and began to climb the tree that grew next to the balcony.

 _—Giving Sibella a room with a balcony with easy access to a tree is a terrible idea on multiple levels_ , Monty thought, steadfastly resolving never to mention this very fact to Sibella’s parents.

He swung himself over the balcony’s railing and considered how to best get Sibella’s attention without her shrieks alerting the whole house. He finally settled on knocking lightly on the door before opening it a crack.

“Sibellait’sMontydon’tscream!” he said as loudly as he dared.

The door handle was wrenched from his grasp as the door flew open in full force to reveal Sibella in her pink dressing gown.

“Monty Navarro! Calling twice in one day, visiting my room unchaperoned—do you want to leave my reputation in tatters?”

“Never mind your reputation; I need to borrow your owl.” Monty stepped past her into the room.

“However did you get up here?”

“There’s a very helpful tree that you parents would cut down if they knew what was good for them.”

“Surely you won’t say so!”

“Of course not. Then I wouldn’t be able to sneak into your room after appropriate hours to borrow your owl.”

“What on earth do you need Pearl for?” demanded Sibella, moving between Monty and the mirror her snowy owl was perched on top of.

“To mail a letter, what else?”

“And just who is this letter to?”

“It’s not a billet-doux for a lady love, if that’s what you want to know.”

“That has nothing to do with it.” Monty looked skeptical. “She’s my owl!” Sibella exclaimed with a stamp of her foot. “I have the right to know where she’s flying off to!”

“It’s not far; she won’t leave London.” Sibella folded her arms. “That’s all I’m telling you.”

They stared at each other for a few silent moments before Sibella relented. “You owe me a favor, Mister Navarro.”

“First Hogsmeade weekend this year, I will buy you as much Honeyduke’s chocolate nougat as you want.”

“Would you stop with all this talk of sweets?” Sibella said, swatting him on the shoulder.

“Sibella,” sighed Monty, holding out his arm for Pearl to alight on, “you are stunning, no matter how tightly your corset laces.”

“It’s improper to speak of corsets and such things with a young lady you aren’t married to,” Sibella said petulantly.

“I am standing in your bedroom after dark and you are in your dressing gown. I believe we have reached new levels of impropriety,” Monty declared as he untied the pink ribbon from around Pearl’s neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Important people are going to read this letter, Sibella.”

“But how will they know that she’s mine?”

“For this purpose, she’s not! They won’t know that she doesn’t belong to me; this has to make a good impression.”

Sibella squinted, considering this. “You owe me two favors.”

“Done and done.” He crossed to the doors and offered the letter to Pearl, who took it in her beak and went soaring off into the night. “Thank you,” said Monty, turning back to Sibella. “Someday I’ll tell you what it was.”

“I expect nothing less. Now go scamper down your little tree before someone finds you.”

He grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm before she could object. “I was never here.”

***

The final weeks before school started seemed interminable to Monty. Pearl returned to Sibella’s the next morning (and the pink ribbon was immediately  restored), but no owl had darkened Monty’s window in the three weeks since. As he closed up the house on September first, he hoped Asquith D’Ysquith would remember to direct any communication to Hogwarts.

  
After double checking that all the windows were shuttered and locked, Monty dragged his trunk onto the stoop and turned the key in the front door.  
From the yard he considered the house he’d lived in all his life, and how it had gone from being full of hazy but bright memories of two living parents to a sort of diminished cheerfulness with only his mother, and finally to a gloomy place that only seemed to remind him of what he’d lost. He didn’t plan to come back until the summer holidays next year, and he’d packed accordingly, his mother’s jewel box safely wrapped in a bundle of shirts and robes.

  
He was startled out of his pondering by the sharp beep of a horn. He turned to see Sibella waving at him from the passenger seat of a motorcar. Her other arm was around Lionel Holland.

“Hurry up, Navarro, we haven’t got all day!” Lionel cried.

Grahame hopped out of the back seat to help Monty with his trunk.

“I didn’t realize this was how we were getting to King’s Cross,” Monty muttered darkly.

“Neither did I,” Grahame said in the same tone of voice. “I’m about as happy about it as you are.”

After heaving his belongings into the larger-on-the-inside trunk, Monty found himself seated between Grahame and Julia for an uncomfortably cozy ride to the train station.

“I’m surprised at you, Lionel,” said Monty. “I was under the impression you harbored great disdain for anything that had to do with Muggles.”

“This hardly counts,” Lionel drawled. “And anyway, it’s half magic—steers itself. Monty’s got more Muggle in him than this motorcar does, eh, Sibella?”

Sibella’s face was stony. The Hallwards were an old pureblood family themselves but took no particular pride in the fact.

“Actually,” said Monty in an affectedly bored voice, “If this motorcar is half-magic, as you say, then I in fact have just as much magic in me as it does, being the child of a witch and a Muggle, and therefore, a half-blood. Logic.”

Lionel cleared his throat uncomfortably and allowed the motorcar to steer itself in silence for the rest of the journey.

***

  
“So what do you say,” Monty said to Sibella as he handed her trunk up to the conductor. “Same compartment as usual?”

“Actually,” Sibella said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “I think I’m going to sit with Lionel this trip.”

“Do you enjoy torturing me?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’m only trying to become better acquainted with students in other Houses! Isn’t the Sorting Hat always droning on about that at the opening feast?”

“What, you think if you sit with Lionel Holland the Hat will keep quiet about all that this year?”

“One can only hope.”

Grahame and Julia went off to join their respective Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw friends, leaving Monty with a compartment to himself as the train pulled out of the station. He considered drowning his sorrows in Chocolate Frogs, but decided his pocket money would likely be better spent in Hogsmeade and settled for the sandwich he had brought from home instead.

A solitary journey was not unpleasant—the countryside was certainly beautiful—and Monty was just considering how delightful it was to be headed back to Hogwarts, company or no, when the compartment door slid open and a rather dandified young man wearing a boater hat entered.

“Montague Navarro?” he asked in a clipped accent Monty had come to associate with pretentious Londoners.

“Yes; most people just call me Monty.” He held out a hand that the young man seemed uninterested in shaking.

“I don’t believe we’ve properly met; I am Asquith D’Ysquith, Jr.”

Monty resisted the urge to smack himself. How could he have forgotten that Asquith D’Ysquith’s son was still at Hogwarts?

“We received your letter at the investment firm several weeks ago.”

Monty straightened eagerly. “Yes?”

“We are unaware of the existence of any D’Ysquith by your mother’s name; consequently your own identity as a D’Ysquith is nonexistent.”

Monty’s heart sank.

“And we thank you kindly,” Asquith continued in a tone that was anything but kind, “to cease your usage of the D’Ysquith name and seal. If we catch you at it again, we shall have no choice but to call our solicitors.”

And he left he compartment without further ado.

Monty stood up and slammed the door closed, then flung himself down into a seat.

 _—Stupid, stupid,_ he thought to himself, banging a fist against the window. Sibella's laugh echoed through his mind… _“And pigs might fly!”_ …

He drew his head up sharply, forbidding himself to cry. He had shed enough tears this summer for his mother; he refused to shed any more for himself. The weight of it all was suddenly crashing down upon him—Sibella dangling him from the end of her fingers like a plaything, refusing to take him seriously even after that kiss, running about with Lionel Holland to torment him…But there was nothing he could do about that. Sibella Hallward had his heart now, he was sure of it, and there was little he could do to get it back, not that he particularly wanted to.

And then there were the D’Ysquiths…

How he wished his mother had told him about the source of her hardships. He would have been a thousand times more tender, a thousand times more understanding, a thousand times…But it was too late now. The D’Ysquiths had robbed his mother of her birthright, and now death had robbed Monty of her.

The coals of rage that had been kindled by Asquith Sr.’s cruel indifference flared up once more in Monty’s chest. Was it so wrong of him to hope that he could become the person his mother had wanted him to be, that he could rise above the lonely house and the Muggle life and the D’Ysquith scorn and become great, a flying pig to shock and dazzle them all? After all, who didn’t want to become something better than they were at the moment? That primal spark, that love of the quest, was that not inherently human? Was he to be punished merely for acknowledging the natural tendencies of a man in his position?

_—No._

Monty silenced his own thought definitively as the lamps were lit in the corridor.

 _—I am a D’Ysquith like my mother_ , he told himself as he put on his uniform waistcoat and tie and pulled on his robe. _—And I will win back what should have been mine by right._

All that remained was to discern how.    



	4. Floo Powder and Family Portraits

Monty’s intuition told him than an air of normality was essential to carrying out whatever plan he might later concoct regarding the D’Ysquiths, so he took care to appear as composed as possible at the opening feast, and if he ate his Yorkshire pudding a little more aggressively than usual, none of his schoolmates commented. He allowed himself a few dirty looks in the direction of the Gryffindor table; there was nothing out of the ordinary about that.

The one thing that cheered him was the fact that he was now free to dine with Sibella three times a day without the interference of Lionel Holland; this had put him in such a good mood by the time dessert came around that he didn’t mind when Sibella stole the last bite of treacle tart from his plate.

There were few places that felt more like home to Monty than the Slytherin dormitories, and stepping into the common room for the first time in months made him feel warm all over, despite the cool dungeon air. He knew none of the other Houses understood the appeal of living quarters beneath the lake, but they would never have the pleasure of being lulled to sleep by the gentle lapping of waves against a bedside window. _—Perhaps_ , he thought hazily as he drifted off, all thoughts of D’Ysquiths banished for the time being, _—you have to be a Slytherin to understand…_

Despite his burning determination, Monty found that returning to school left little time for scheming. He had classes to attend, essays to write, books to read, and many, many House points to earn if he was going to make up for those Sibella had already lost.

It happened every year: Sibella would show up to class in her green uniform skirt and a pink shirtwaist (and woe to the ignorant classmate who claimed the two didn’t match; they were in for a long lecture on complexions and color wheels), and though she might get away with it if she was wearing a robe and sitting in the back of class, one sharp-eyed professor would inevitably catch her and deliver some variation of the phrase, “Miss Hallward! How many times must I remind you that the only acceptable shirtwaist colors for a young lady of your House are white and grey? Ten points from Slytherin; you know better.” But Sibella always persisted for the first week or so, knowing just how far she could push the rule without getting detention, but costing her House quite the amount of points in the process. For years Monty had made it his personal mission to make up her deficit, and this often required a lot of extra spell practice and studying, especially if he had a class with Ravenclaws.

Weekends might have provided free time to begin planning, but just as Monty’s workload became manageable enough to devote time to such matters, Quidditch season began. Rain or shine, homework or no, he attended every game, not so much because he was an avid fan as because Sibella was. He had never seen someone more passionate about the sport than she, and he often wondered if her enthusiasm would be more useful on the pitch than in the stands.

The first match of the year was Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff, and even though Slytherins had little real investment in the match, Sibella still made Monty eat an early breakfast with her and go immediately to the pitch to ensure good seats. (Quidditch matches were the only reason Monty had ever known Sibella to willingly get out of bed before nine o'clock.) Slytherin supported Ravenclaw and Gryffindor sided with Hufflepuff, although Monty noticed one lone figure in blue among the sea of yellow and gold on the opposite side of the pitch. Whoever it was held a sign enchanted to alternately flash the messages “GO HENRY!” and “FLY LIKE A SNIDGET, SEEK LIKE A NIFFLER!” Unfortunately for Henry and his admirer, the Ravenclaw seeker pulled a spectacular dive and snatched the Snitch out of the air before Hufflepuff could establish a considerable lead. Sibella cheered as though Slytherin had won the Quidditch Cup, and any game that ended with Gryffindor on the losing side, even by proxy, satisfied Monty.

He didn’t have a weekend to himself until early October, when most of the school went down to Hogsmeade. Though he had missed the village dreadfully over the summer, the D’Ysquiths had been at the forefront of his mind for over a week, and an empty common room was the best place to determine his next move. Sibella was going to Hogsmeade with Lionel, and it gave Monty a somewhat guilty twinge of pleasure to deny her the chance to tease him mercilessly.

The common room was empty by eleven. Monty gathered up the homework he had been pretending to do and went to get the jewel box from his trunk. He hoped his mother’s papers would provide him with an idea for how to make his next move.

He sat before the fireplace and sorted through the photographs. _—Wedding pictures, baby pictures…_ He came to the photo of his mother and two of her cousins at Hogwarts. They were outside in the snow, laughing very hard and clinging to each other and looking as though there were no other people they would rather be with. He remembered Professor Shingle saying that the other girl was Hyacinth, but he didn’t know where she was or if she was in a position to recommend him to the family. The boy, on the other hand…

_—Surely if the current Earl of Highhurst took me under his wing, no other part of the family could object._

Monty rifled through the box and found a letter addressed to Adalbert D’Ysquith. _“…My dearest Adalbert, you have always been like a brother to me. For the sake of our Hogwarts years, of the joy we shared as children, do not cast me and my poor son away from your love, not when we are in the greatest need of your compassion…”_

Like the rest of the D’Ysquiths, Adalbert had been stony and unforgiving, but perhaps now, in the light of his beloved cousin’s death, he would finally be moved to pity. _—It helps that I’m the first Slytherin in the family since him_ , Monty thought. _We do look out for our own…_

His mind turned to how to put himself in touch with the earl. _No more letters_ , he quickly decided. — _They are far too easily ignored._ _This sort of thing is best done in person. Surely Highhurst has visiting hours…_

The only question was how to get there. It was only half a day’s ride by bicycle from the house in London, but he certainly didn’t want to wait until next summer, and attempting to travel from Hogwarts, even by broomstick, was out of the question.

Monty spent several minutes staring at the greenish light rippling across the flagstones and trying to think of a solution. His thoughts were diverted from the matter at hand by a cold draft and the resulting involuntary shiver. _—Why the devil hasn’t the fire been lit?_ he wondered, letting his gaze drift to the empty fireplace.

He stood up suddenly. _—The fire!_ He grabbed the jewel box and dashed back to his room. Kneeling beside his trunk, he wrapped the box in one of his shirts and began to feel around for the jar of emergency Floo powder Mrs. Hallward had given him over the summer. _“Never know when you might need it, love.”_ How right she was.

Floo powder in one hand, wand in the other, Monty raced down the steps back into the common room and set the fire ablaze with a hasty “ _Incendio!_ ” He unscrewed the jar, but hesitated before taking a handful of powder. There was no telling what fireplace he might turn up in at Highhurst. He had no way of knowing if the castle was even open to visitors that day. It would be terrible form to suddenly appear in the fire as the earl was taking his lunch, and that would certainly do him no favors with the family.

And yet…Was he not already at the lowest point possible? As the unacknowledged son of an estranged D’Ysquith, the family could hardly ostracize him more than they already did. What could he lose by going to Highhurst, even if he did topple out of the fireplace onto the earl himself?

 _—Dash it all_ , he thought, dipping his fingers in the jar. _—There’s no time like the present._

Partial transportation was the more prudent route, he decided, at least to see if the coast was clear. Monty knelt by the fire and sprinkled the silvery powder on the flames, which leapt and turned a brilliant shade of emerald. Hoping very hard that he would find himself in a deserted room, Monty leaned into the flames and said, “Highhurst Castle” as clearly as he could.

When his head stopped spinning, Monty found himself staring at what appeared to be a lavishly furnished spare bedroom. It was mercifully unoccupied. The door was ajar, but the direction it opened blocked his view of the hallway. He was considering the risk of full transportation when he heard footsteps approaching.

“At the end of this hallway,” a woman’s voice was saying, “you will notice a coat of mail that belonged to Richard the Lionheart…”

Monty let out a sigh of relief. So it was a visiting day!

He withdrew his head from the fire and added more Floo powder. He slipped a handful into his pocket—never mind the mess it would make—then hid the jar under a loose hearthstone before stepping into the flames and repeating his destination.

In a moment he found himself in the same empty chamber. Brushing the soot off of his clothes, he stepped out of the fireplace and crept into the hallway. Perhaps he could join a tour without anyone noticing?

The group that had just gone past was now at the bottom of a nearby staircase.

“You are free to explore the castle,” the woman said, “after you pay your sixpence.”

_—Sixpence?_

Monty remembered what Professor Shingle had said about the fine line the D’Ysquiths walked between the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Having separate visiting days was certainly not out of the question, and though Monty was perfectly capable of passing as a Muggle (something that could not be said for many of his schoolmates), he had no Muggle money, not even among his possessions at school.

Despite this, it seemed an awful waste not to have a look around. Not wanting to draw attention by dithering in the hallway next to a banister where he could easily be seen apart from the paying group, Monty began to walk as quietly as he could toward a set of double doors that appeared to open into the library. Once inside, he shut the doors behind him and began to look around.

The room was a grand one, with oak paneling, a high ceiling, and bookshelves so tall they had those delightful sliding ladders attached to them. There were handsome leather armchairs and ornate writing desks and marble busts of famous wizards. The wall opposite the double doors was filled with family portraits. It was exactly how Monty had imagined it would be.

He picked up a book entitled _Ancient Wizarding Families_ that was lying on a table and flipped to the chapter on the D’Ysquiths. He was about to search for his mother on the family tree when he heard a voice say, “Funny looking chap, isn’t he?”

Monty whirled around, expecting to see someone at the door staring at him accusatorially. There was no one there.

He returned his attention to family tree when he heard it again:

“Too dark to be pure English, that’s certain.”

He narrowed his eyes at the portrait wall suspiciously. Letting his gaze fall once again to the book, he waited for the voice’s next comment.

“Coming in here without permission, I daresay. How presumptuous!”

“Ha!” Monty cried as his eyes fixed on the third portrait from the left, a white-haired, rather fussy looking man. “I know you can talk,” he said, approaching the wall.

“At least he has some strength of character,” a woman in Elizabethan dress commented. “He’s not shrieking like an average Muggle would.”

“That’s because I’m a wizard,” explained Monty.

The lords and ladies in the portraits all let out noises of relief and began to talk all at once, stretching and scratching themselves in a most undignified manner. Monty caught snatches of their complaints:

“—do so hate Muggle visit days—”

“— _such_ a crick in my neck, I never—”

“—standing so bloody still—”

“—don’t know how Muggle portraits manage—”

When they had all aired their grievances, the portraits fell silent as the first wizard asked,

“Why _are_ you here then? Some great Muggle-lover, are you?”

“No—,” Monty stammered, “well—yes—well—my name is Monty Navarro. My mother was Isabel D’Ysquith—”

This set the portraits all of a flutter. “We heard many an argument over that girl!” the Elizabethan witch cried. “Running off with a Muggle, such a disgrace to the family! I suppose you’re here trying to reconcile?” she asked mockingly.

“Yes, you see, she—she died this summer—”

“Give it up, boy! You do not know the D’Ysquith way of life, even if you are a wizard! You were raised with none of the family pride, the family values! Come back to do a little gold digging, I suppose!”

“Not at all—”

“Wait a moment!” said the portrait of a wizard with long, curled hair. “You look terribly familiar! I say, what House are you in?”

“Slytherin,” answered Monty proudly.

The wizard burst into laughter. “I know this chap!” he cried to his fellow portraits. “My painting is in his dormitory hallway at Hogwarts! More often than not he’s arguing with a little blonde witch who is likely miles out of his league!”

Monty’s face turned red as the other portraits began to jest at his pursuit of Sibella.

“From what I can tell,” the long-haired wizard continued, “she’s going around with some handsome Gryffindor Quidditch player and it’s making this scrawny fellow quite upset!”

The laughter continued; one of the portraits cried, “Gryffindor, the noblest House!”, and Monty remembered with a groan that most D’Ysquiths were Sorted there, a fact that only served to increase his already intense dislike of both Gryffindors and D’Ysquiths.

The portraits' gleeful mockery was brought to a sudden halt as the double doors flew open with a bang.

“Do keep your voices down!” a gruff voice bellowed, clearly not heeding its own advice. “I can hear you all the way at the other end of the—You there!”

Monty turned to look at the source of the voice and, to his dismay, found himself face-to-face with an older but still recognizable version of the Slytherin boy in his mother’s picture.

“Your Lordship!” Monty squeaked. (How he hated the tendency his voice had to climb several octaves when he was nervous!)

“Just what do you think you’re doing! Drop that book! Get your nosy Muggle self out of my library!”

“Actually, Your Lordship, I’m not—”

“Go on, go on, get gone with you! I shan’t say it again!”

Monty, now too agitated to argue, practically ran from the room. Once outside of it, he pressed himself against the wall beside the door, wondering nervously if the portraits would tell Adalbert D’Ysquith, Eighth Earl of Highhurst, exactly who Monty was and why he was there.

The earl, however, appeared to be on somewhat of a rant at the moment.

“Muggles! I absolutely do not understand them! How they go about their lives, creeping along without magic, backwards and nosy and constantly multiplying! If I had it my way I should cease Highhurst’s contact with Muggles once and for all, but the situation being what it is I’m afraid we shall have to endure their muddling and mucking about for the rest of the century at least! That some of our kind find them attractive enough to marry absolutely confounds me! Who would want to spend their life taking care of someone who can barely do anything for themselves?”

“Now, now,” called one of the portraits, “what about that fellow who lives belowstairs?”

“Yes, yes, well, I do love him," Adalbert conceded. "Of course, he is a Squib, which is hardly the same thing as a Muggle—”

“It is nearly!”

“Hush or I’ll have you put in storage for the winter Season! He is ever such a good man…tries to do well for himself, when he’s sober…never complains about his inabilities…frankly I’m not even sure he’s aware of them…”

“Bah,” the same portrait said, “you only let him stay because your mum told you he’s likely your bastard half-brother!”

“A fact we all agreed would never be mentioned again!” Adalbert bellowed. “And I shall instruct one of the servants to put you in a dark closet where you will not be able to ogle any of the young ladies who come for society balls!”

Monty had heard quite enough. Sprinting back to the empty bedroom, he dug the Floo powder out of his pocket and threw it on the fire, all but jumped in the middle of the flames, said, “Slytherin common room!” as loudly as he dared, and found himself moments later in that room’s fireplace, alone and dreadfully disappointed.


	5. Unfortunate Consquences of Gravity

Monty had not moved from his chair in front of the fire when Sibella came back several hours later, windblown and pink-cheeked and insufferably cheerful.

“Monty, darling!” she called as she tripped lightly down the common room steps. “What a day you missed in Hogsmeade; I’m sure I never had such a wonderful time! I saw the most delightful dress at Gladrags that they promised to hold until I could write home and ask Mother for the money, and then Genevieve and William and Lionel and I went to the Three Broomsticks and Lionel bought three rounds of butterbeer—”

“I’m not in a mood to hear about your Gryffindor blockhead,” said Monty shortly.

“Because you’re jealous!” Sibella cried gleefully, walking her fingers up his arm.

“Stop it, Sibella.” He shrugged her hand away.

“Whatever is the matter with you?”

“I’m going down to dinner,” Monty told her, avoiding the question. “And then I’ve got homework to do. Don’t wait to say goodnight.”

He left her standing by the fireplace, bewildered and fuming.

***

 The sting of the afternoon’s setback had lessened considerably by the next morning. _—It was a long shot_ , he acknowledged, _—and at least I now know the sort of person the earl is. Ravenclaws aren’t the only ones who know that knowledge is power._

Besides, it had taken him almost no time at all to plan his next move.

  
***

  
 Monty was in a particularly sunny disposition as he climbed the winding North Tower stairs the next Friday. After copious apologizing ( _—and groveling, be honest with yourself_ ) for his beastly behavior last Saturday, Sibella had spoken to him for the first time in nearly a week ( _—Merlin, does she know how to stay angry with me; it’s terribly unfair that I can’t manage to do the same with her_ ). To make circumstances even better, Slytherin was playing Gryffindor at Quidditch the next day, which meant he would have the superb treat of watching Sibella cheer like a madwoman when Lionel’s team lost.

After pausing for a moment to catch his breath at the top of the staircase, Monty straightened his tie and knocked on Professor D’Ysquith’s door.

“Yes, come in!” a reedy voice answered.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” said Monty as he opened the door.

Professor Ezekiel D’Ysquith was a rather doddery man with a pronounced overbite, wild but thinning hair, and (it was rumored) an often-indulged fondness for firewhisky. His residence in Ravenclaw Tower during his school years had given him such a taste for heights that he insisted on holding his classes in a room at the very top of the North Tower, which made Muggle Studies even less popular than it already was.

It was this unpopular subject that made Professor D’Ysquith the perfect family member to approach.

 _—It’s frankly embarrassing that I didn’t think of this before,_ Monty had thought to himself as he fell asleep Sunday night. _—As a D’Ysquith he may have fond memories of Mother, and given that he teaches Muggle Studies, he is very likely to be sympathetic regarding my father and our family situation._

Professor D’Ysquith squinted at Monty from behind his desk. “And who might you be?”

“Monty Navarro, sir. I’m a sixth year. I was hoping to talk to you—”

“Ever taken Muggle Studies?”

“No sir, you see—”

“I thought not. I never forget a student, classes being so small…”

“Yes sir.” Monty paused, unsure if the professor was going to continue. When he didn’t, Monty said, “I was wondering—”

“Afraid of heights, is it?” Professor D’Ysquith asked, leaning forward.

Monty’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“Why you haven’t taken my class?”

“Oh, not at all,” he said, confusion evaporating. “You see, my father—”

“Then you won’t mind if walk about a bit.”

The confusion returned in full force. “Alright…”

“My true passion,” Ezekiel D’Ysquith explained as they descended the rickety spiral staircase, “is architecture, and so few students grasp the splendor of this castle! Structurally it would never be able to stand on its own, you know. Magic is the only thing holding it up and keeping us all from tumbling into the lake!”

There was little opportunity for Monty to explain himself as Professor D’Ysquith went gallivanting across the castle, spouting facts about columns and arches and the statue of Twyneford the Ticklish that would emit a high-pitched giggle if you got him under the chin.

“And here,” said the professor as they approached the History of Magic classroom, “is a stained glass window given by the Third Earl of Highhurst, depicting Esmeralda the Enchanting, who was stripped naked and burned alive by the village women who were jealous of her beauty and ability to make men do her every bidding.”

Monty tried very hard not to think about Sibella. As usual, he failed abysmally.

“Have you ever seen the view from the Astronomy tower?” Professor D’Ysquith asked when he finally tore his eyes away from Esmeralda the Enchanting.

“I took Astronomy for five years—”

“But I doubt you’ve seen it in the daytime! The landscape is incomparable!” The professor set off at a brisk pace.

“Sir,” Monty said when he caught up, “I wanted to talk to you about my parents.”

“Oh?”

“My father was a Muggle,” Monty explained as they began to climb the Astronomy tower stairs.

“Ah.”

“And my mother is…well, she’s passed away now…my mother is Isabel D’Ysquith, Lord Maximillian’s daughter.”

“You don’t say!” the professor exclaimed as they reached the top of the tower. “Max and I were best friends growing up. Same year at Hogwarts, same House. We used to spend holidays at Highhurst Castle—stunning flying buttresses, you know…Oh, what glorious days those were!”

“I’m afraid I’ve heard precious few family stories,” Monty said with a hopeful smile. “Did you know my mother at all?”

“I never taught her, but I saw her at many a family gathering. A charming girl, quite beautiful, with natural grace. Very well liked. Shattered her father’s heart, of course, marrying a Muggle.”

“But certainly you understand!” Monty cried.

“Absolutely! Bringing such scandal upon the family—he had every right to be outraged—”

“I meant my mother,” Monty interrupted.

“What about her?”

“I thought you would—given the subject you teach—I thought you might sympathize with her marrying a Muggle.”

“Certainly not! Such a betrayal of the family—”

“How did she betray her family?” demanded Monty. “By falling in love?”

“Well…yes. Now then,” Professor D’Ysquith said as he stepped up on one of the battlements, “let this magnificent vista calm your mind and soothe your troubles!”

 _—I will do no such thing._ “So there is no chance of you putting in a good word for me with the family? Not even for the sweet girl my mother used to be? Or her father, your best friend?”

“Well isn’t that it exactly?” Ezekiel D’Ysquith said as the wind began to pick up. “If the man who was like my brother wanted to kick her out of the family, who am I to go against his wishes? Oh—I say!” he cried as he swayed dangerously at the edge of the tower. “Be a good chap and give me your hand.”

Monty was beginning to reach for the professor when one clear, resounding word entered his mind:

_—No._

He considered Professor Ezekiel D’Ysquith swinging his arms about in a furious attempt to keep his balance on the edge of a very high tower in what was quickly becoming a proper Scottish gale.

  
 _—It’s madness_ , Monty told himself.

  
_—No. It’s justice._

It was becoming clear to Monty that he would find no repentance among the D’Ysquiths for the pain they had inflicted, no compassion for the son of a kind and loving mother who had suffered so much at their hands. Three times he had asked for their help and three times he had been unceremoniously swept aside. And now one of them was on the brink of a very literal fall from glory. — _How deliciously poetic_.

“Navarro!” Professor D’Ysquith cried, “What are you playing at?”

Monty’s mind began to race through the practical questions at hand.

_—Will anyone suspect me?_

Nobody knew he had been to see Professor D’Ysquith, not even Sibella. In the (apparently inevitable) event that he was humiliated once more, he hardly wanted to give anyone the opportunity to tease him about it by telling them what he was up to. And the gale looked quite ready to carry the Professor off the edge of the tower without Monty’s help.

_—Is this murder?_

If it was, it was only in the most technical sense of the word. He was merely failing to stop an event that nature had already seemed to have put in place.

_—What’s the point?_

No need to be senseless about things, after all. If he was going to make a morally dubious decision, he might as well get something out of it.

His eyes widened as he remembered a very pertinent piece of information. _“You’re only eight relatives removed from an earldom,”_ Professor Shingle had said as they looked at his family tree last summer. Monty had later underlined all the names of relatives who were before him in line for the title—and Ezekiel D’Ysquith was one of them.

There was no clap of thunder or other similarly suitable natural occurrence to mark the moment Monty Navarro’s life changed forever. There was only the sound of a footfall, barely to be heard over the wind, as he took a step away from the battlement and a gust of wind carried Professor Ezekiel D’Ysquith over the edge.  



	6. Unfortunate Consequences of Gravity (Reprise)

Professor D’Ysquith was discovered that evening at the foot of the Astronomy tower, having met the end of his life by meeting the ground with rather more force than was healthy. The students were informed of the accident at dinner, and though it was unexpected, it was not unexplainable—it had been a remarkably windy autumn, and the entire school knew about the professor’s strange propensity for heights and his rumored bouts of inebriation.

Monty Navarro barely slept after the announcement was made, but it was not the insomnia of a guilty conscience.

 _—I know next to nothing about the man’s life except his abominable treatment of Mother_ , Monty had mused as he stared out of his bedside window at the luminous fish swimming by. _—He may have very well deserved it; I can say with no certainty that he didn’t_.  

He repeated to himself the important fact that he did not actively cause the professor’s death. In his mind, this put the label of “murder” so very far out of the question that he was not remotely concerned by it. There would be no nervous fidgets when other students discussed the accident, no blanching when he heard Ezekiel D’Ysquith’s name. Monty was, on the whole, quite at ease.

All the same, he had the sense that he was now on a journey whose path had begun at the top of the Astronomy Tower and would end at Highhurst Castle. There was no sense in turning back now that he had made a claim to his rightful destiny.

Naturally, the scheming must begin in earnest, with none of the lolling about he had allowed himself earlier in the year. Of course, the nature of his plan was such that absolutely no evidence of it must exist outside of his own thoughts.

 _—And just what plan is that?_ he demanded of himself. _—You’d best get used to being honest with yourself about it, or you will go quite mad._ He heaved a sigh and sat up on the side of his bed. _—I am going to become the next Earl of Highhurst_ , he answered himself, _—by any means necessary, even if I have to off every relative that stands between me and the title._

He found his own candidness refreshing and flopped back down, turning his thoughts to who he should concentrate on next.

There were several D’Ysquiths still at Hogwarts, he reminded himself. Three, to be exact: a Ravenclaw girl in his own year who, as a woman of his generation, posed no threat; a Hufflepuff boy a year above him whose name he could not recall in his present state of sleep deprivation; and another boy a year above him, a Gryffindor, Asquith D’Ysquith Jr., the one who had so cruelly dashed Monty’s hopes on the Hogwarts Express.

_—Him next._

It was a poorly kept secret that Asquith Jr. was carrying on with a Hogsmeade barmaid who was older than him by a year but younger than him in most other respects. A hazy plan formed in Monty’s mind as he thought about steaming mugs of butterbeer and cups of tea and the gin flask Asquith Jr. made little effort to hide.    

_—How fortunate that I’ve always been a dab hand at potions…_

He spent the next hour trying to stay lucid enough to properly weigh the poisonous properties of baneberry versus moonseed, but gave up around two o’clock and allowed himself to fall into a shallow sleep.

***

“For goodness sake, Monty, do wake up! It’s nearly half past ten!” exclaimed Sibella, prodding him with a fork as he nodded off over his breakfast. (The Quidditch match had been rescheduled in light of recent traumatic events.) “Are you quite alright? You look simply dreadful!”

“I didn’t sleep very well,” Monty explained, rubbing his eyes.

“I doubt anybody did,” murmured Sibella. “Except me, of course.” Monty’s life had been one long lesson in not underestimating what Sibella Hallward was capable of, especially when it came to sleep. Even in times of anxiety or distress (not to mention loud noises), sleep came as easily to Sibella as fire-breathing came to dragons.

 _—Best not think about Sibella breathing fire_ , Monty told himself groggily. _—I think she might be capable of it._

“Do you think he was…you know?” Sibella whispered as she mimed drinking from a goblet. “Because Gabriella, that curly-haired Gryffindor who sits next to me in Charms? She took his class for a few years and said he often came across as quite inebriated. There’s a rumor he kept firewhisky in a hollow step in the North Tower and that’s why he insisted on having class there.”

Monty gave a noncommittal shrug.

“To be perfectly honest I don’t think anyone will miss him very much,” Sibella continued through a mouthful of toast. “You really should go back to bed when you’re done with your breakfast. The ghosts look more alive than you do right now.”

“I believe I shall do exactly as you say,” Monty said, polishing off a pasty and getting up from the table.

"I'd love hear those words come out of you more often!" Sibella called after him.

***

After a solid nap, Monty’s thoughts were clear enough to see a flaw in the plan he had concocted the night before. His own determination was commendable, of course, but he must not rush things. If the deaths were not carefully spaced the situation would look very suspicious, so he must bide him time. This would give him the opportunity for plenty of research, as well as sleep and studying and everything else necessary for keeping up appearances of normality.  
Monty smiled to himself. _—How ridiculous the D’Ysquiths will look when I prove them wrong…_

***

The last Saturday of November was another Hogsmeade outing. Sibella, who was growing weary of not having Monty around to tease, threatened to pitch a fit if he refused to go, but his quick acquiescence made this unnecessary. Quite apart from wanting to go, Monty needed to go—it was the perfect opportunity to observe his next target.

They only visited a couple of shops before the biting wind drove them inside the Three Broomsticks, where Monty was pleased to find Asquith D’Ysquith Jr. sitting at the bar and chatting with the freckled, curly haired girl behind it. He and Sibella were joined by some fellow Slytherins and (Monty suppressed a groan) Lionel Holland, who offered to buy the first round of drinks.

Monty had been watching Asquith Jr. over the top of his butterbeer for nearly half an hour when Sibella finally realized he was barely listening to her discourse on the relative merits of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion versus Wizard’s Sculpting Gel (a lecture that under normal circumstances would have had him hanging off her every word).

“Monty!” Sibella snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Whatever are you staring at?”

“Hm? Nothing!” he squeaked. _—Damn. She always knows I’m lying when my voice does that._

Sibella rolled her eyes as she twisted around in her chair. “I don’t see what’s so interesting. It’s only Asquith D’Ysquith and the barmaid.”

Lionel made a choking noise into his butterbeer. “Anyone care for another round?” he asked, standing up and reaching for Sibella’s not-yet-empty glass. “Just me then?” he said when she slapped his hand away. “Right-o.”

Monty raised an eyebrow as he watched Lionel’s awkward attempt to start a conversation with Asquith as he waited on his refill. “Are they friends?”

“They’re in the same House and the same year,” Sibella replied, taking a sip, “but I’d hardly call them friends, though Lionel certainly wishes he could.”

 _—So Lionel Holland’s luck is no better than mine_ , Monty thought with a smirk. _—Clearly money isn’t everything._

“Asquith sends his regards,” said Lionel stiffly as he returned to the table.

“Oh!” Sibella cried, “that reminds me! Did you know that Monty is distantly relat—ouch!” Monty, having realized what Sibella was about to say, had kicked her under the table.

“I’m sorry, was that your foot?” he asked innocently.    

“I’m sure you’ve left a footprint on my dress!” Sibella complained as she scrambled to her feet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Monty saw Asquith Jr. whisper to the barmaid and fasten his cloak. “I am terribly sorry,” he repeated, “and I expect you will want me out of your sight this instant!” He gave a hasty nod to the rest of the table, whispered, “Thank you,” to his friend Alexandra, who was using her wand to siphon the dirt off Sibella’s dress, and was out the door before anyone else could say a word.

He followed Asquith Jr. around the back of the Three Broomsticks and hid behind a tree as the back door of the pub opened and the freckled barmaid emerged.

She immediately flung herself into Asquith’s arms and giggled when he began to kiss her neck in a manner that looked more uncomfortable than arousing.

“Do be careful!” she squealed. “People will talk if you leave a mark!”

“Well we certainly wouldn’t want a blemish on your pretty little neck.”

“Oh, Assy…” They rubbed noses as Monty suppressed a snort. _—There is no one of my acquaintance more deserving of such an atrocious nickname._ _And who the hell wears a straw boater hat in the middle of winter?_ “Now,” said the girl as she fidgeted with the neckline of her dress, which had become somewhat lower during Asquith’s embrace, “what’s so important that you have to tell me out here in the cold?”

“I’ve arranged with Mother and Father to stay over Christmas holidays,” Asquith drawled.  The girl’s resulting shriek was reason enough to break the news outdoors.

“However did you convince them?” she asked, flinging her arms around his neck.

“I made a droll little excuse about studying for N.E.W.T.s. They positively ate it up.” The girl gave another delighted squeal and instigated another round of snogging that lasted so long Monty wondered if they had discovered a way to survive without oxygen, and if such a development would complicate his murder plans.

He overheard nothing else of note, and Sibella attached herself to Lionel the rest of the day as punishment for Monty “tracking mud all over my dress!” (which was in fact none the worse for wear), but this hardly mattered. He knew exactly what he was doing in the weeks leading up to the Christmas holiday.

***

 _—I have no idea what I’m doing_ , Monty thought, slumping over the library book he was reading and putting his face in his hands. There was only one week of term left and he still had yet to decide what poison to use on Asquith Jr., much less how to go about brewing it in secret. He had recently been questioning if poison was even the best method to use, as victims remained in full control of their wits and were often quite aware that there had been foul play. _—Rubbish,_ he told himself. _—There’s not an easier way to undertake this, and Asquith Jr. doesn’t have that many wits to be control of, in any event._ He rubbed his temples and decided to call it a night. It was no use trying to concentrate, given earlier events of the day.

The Yule Ball was being held the last evening before holidays started and the school had been humming for weeks with the usual gossip surrounding who had been asked and who was still available. (Monty had heard every scrap of news in excruciating detail from Sibella, who delighted in these sorts of events.) Monty’s roommates had long ago asked their respective ladies to accompany them, but Monty had been so wrapped up in his quest for the perfect poison that he had left the task of inviting Sibella until that morning. As they made their way to the Quidditch pitch for the Slytherin-Hufflepuff match, Monty drew her away from their friends and presented her with a small box of Honeydukes chocolate nougat and a nosegay of pink tea roses.

“You’re so sweet!” Sibella smiled, pinning the nosegay on her dress. “Whatever is it for?”

“I was hoping,” said Monty, stepping closer to her, “that you would do me the honor of letting me accompany you to the Yule Ball.”

“Oh, that,” Sibella laughed. “I’m afraid not. Lionel’s escorting me.”

“Lionel?”

“Yes, he asked me last week. It took him ever so long to do it, too; I’d been dropping hints for weeks.” She gave another glittering laugh and walked away to catch up with her friends.

 _—Truth be told_ , Monty thought as he re-shelved the book he had been reading, _—I didn’t think she would say yes to anyone else. —And that_ , said another part of his mind, _—is why you’re not in Ravenclaw. Speaking of…_

Monty had just looked down the aisle of shelves to see a small Ravenclaw girl peering at him over the top of her book. The thought of asking her to accompany him flitted through his mind—it would make Sibella delightfully jealous—but he decided that would hardly be fair to her. Instead he smiled, and the girl, startled by the acknowledgement, immediately disappeared behind the book.

***

Monty had been standing at the edge of the dance floor for half an hour, punch in hand and attention divided equally between gazing at Sibella and glaring at Asquith D’Ysquith Jr., when Julia Hallward appeared at his side.

“Being a wallflower, are we?” she asked, ladling herself some punch.

“I didn’t bring anyone,” Monty explained. “I don’t much feel like dancing, anyhow.”

They stood in silence for a moment, surveying the crowd. “No, no, no…” Julia said as one of her friends accepted Asquith Jr.’s hand for a waltz.

“What is it?” Monty asked, following her gaze.”

“That odious D’Ysquith boy in Gryffindor. He sat down next to me in the library the other day and put his hand on my knee.” Monty made a disgusted sound. “I poured my tea on his hand," she said with satisfied smirk. "He removed it."

“You snuck tea into the library?”

“Well of course. What else is one supposed to drink?”

Monty gave her his best proud-older-brother smile and reflected that her occasional disregard for the rules would have made her as fine a Slytherin as her sister.

“Now then,” said Julia, setting her punch cup aside, “will you dance, Mr. Navarro? It is my first Yule Ball, you know.”

“Yes,” Monty assented, offering his hand. “You’re practically out in society now.”

“Tell that to my mother!” Julia laughed as they joined the waltz.

Monty quite enjoyed dancing. Sibella had taught him when they were younger (“So you don’t embarrass me,” she had said; Monty had been too preoccupied with the thought of holding her so close to be offended) and Julia was an amiable partner, though they both faltered when Julia’s friend pushed Asquith Jr. away roughly when his hand climbed higher than it should have.

When the waltz was over, Monty returned to his punchbowl haunt and was soon joined by Grahame.

“Thanks for dancing with Jules,” he said.

“Of course. She’s a charming girl.”

“Hopefully she won’t cause Mother and Father quite as much grief as Sibella. I assume you’re over here steaming about her?”

Monty took a rather large gulp of punch.

“Lionel Holland has a big head about Quidditch,” Grahame said as he watched Lionel dance the least vigorous polka imaginable, “and I’ve seen suits of armor livelier than he is, but I must admit he’s rather stuck on her.”

“You know you’re not helping.”

“Sorry.” He observed the other merrymakers for a moment before saying, “You should find someone to dance with.”

“I already danced with Julia, and Sibella is spoken for.”

“There are other women in this room who do not have the last name Hallward, and it is perfectly acceptable for you to dance with them. Look, there’s Erin,” he indicated a girl in shimmering silver and blue, “she’s a Hufflepuff in your year. Or that girl in the purple—”

“Sarah?”

“No, the tiny one who practically has a whole bouquet of flowers in her hair. She looks like she’s alone.”

Monty was searching for an excuse to stay where he was when Grahame suddenly turned to him and said, “If you’re not going to ask Erin to dance, I am, right now, before the next set starts.”

“Be my guest,” said Monty bemusedly. “Why did you point her out if you were interested?”

“It’s not that I’m sweet on her,” Grahame said hurriedly, “it’s that someone I really don’t want to talk to just saw me over here and…yes, he’s making his way toward us—”

“Go,” said Monty, and Grahame strode away at practically the same time the boy he was avoiding walked up.

“Good evening,” he said, ladling himself some punch. Monty merely nodded. “Not dancing, I see. I’ve never enjoyed dances much myself, but my sister entreated me to come, and I’ve never been good at saying no to her…” He trailed off with an awkward little giggle. When Monty did not respond, he extended his hand. “Henry D’Ysquith, by the way. Hufflepuff, seventh year.”

Monty glanced at the boy and did a double take. As they shook hands his gaze cut over to Asquith Jr. The resemblance was uncanny. _—Bless my father’s Castilian blood for saving me from the same face as that git_ , Monty thought before realizing that he was still holding Henry D’Ysquith’s hand. “Sorry,” he said, returning his hand to his side.

“Not at all,” said Henry with a smile.

Monty’s gaze and thoughts turned in full force to Asquith Jr., and he was so preoccupied with trying to work out the details of his dastardly little plot that he paid barely heeded what Henry was saying and took no notice of how intently Henry was looking at him. The fellow was a D’Ysquith, after all, and quite possibly in the line of succession. Best not get too attached.

The evening was nearing its end when Monty felt a tug at his hand and looked up to see Sibella. “The band’s about to play ragtime,” she explained, “and Lionel simply can’t keep up.” Monty gave a curt nod to Henry D’Ysquith and let Sibella pull him onto the dance floor.

“I know you enjoy using Lionel to make me jealous,” Monty said as the music started, “but I confess I’m rather surprised that you chose to spend an evening dancing with him instead of me. _He’s_ about as vigorous as a flobberworm, and _I_ learned from the best.”

“Well I have to keep things interesting, don’t I?” asked Sibella with a pout.

“Have you ever considered that your incessant toying with my heart might one day drive me away?”

Sibella threw her head back and laughed a full throated, sparkling laugh that made Monty feel warm all the way down to his toes. “Oh, Monty darling, don’t be so daft! Whatever would we do without each other?”

 _—That_ , he thought as he lifted her up and she laughed again, _—is a question I have no desire to know the answer to._

***

The Hallward siblings were on the Hogwarts Express back to London the next morning.

“Listen, Monty,” Grahame had said at breakfast, “if you want to spend the holidays with us, just let the headmaster know there’s been a last minute change and you’re not staying at school. I’m sure Mother wouldn’t object.”    

Monty had declined as graciously as he could. Under any other circumstances he would have immediately jumped at the chance to spend the holidays in the same house as Sibella, but this year’s undertaking was more important than even that. If everything went according to plan, he would eventually have fortune and title enough to spend every _day_ in the same house as Sibella.

Monty awoke on Christmas morning to a small pile of presents at the foot of his bed. He unwrapped Cauldron Cakes and Honeydukes fudge from his roommates, a handsome leather journal from Sibella, a beautiful new quill from Grahame, and a box addressed to him in Professor Shingle’s handwriting. Inside there was a note affixed to a smaller box. It read:

   _“My dear Montague,_  
 _Your mother sent me a letter the week before she died. It was a pretty piece of writing—she always had a gift—and in it she asked me to take money from her account and buy you a watch for your seventeenth birthday. Due to start of school and the fuss those Gringotts goblins make when you try to open a vault that isn’t your own, I was not able to fulfill her request in time for your birthday in November, but I can now say that I have honored your mother’s last wish of me. Remember, dearie, that while I may have picked out the watch, the gift is entirely your mother’s. Happy birthday and happy Christmas, from me and darling Isabel._  
 _Marietta Shingle”_

Monty opened the box to find a handsome pocket watch. He turned it over in his hand several times, opened it, closed it, and opened it again, marveling all the while. After a few minutes he dressed and slipped the watch in his waistcoat pocket, smiling at his mother’s last gift to him.

***

The day after New Year’s was the first day of vacation when students were allowed into Hogsmeade. Monty could tell by the way Asquith D’Ysquith, Jr. ate his breakfast that he would be making his way to the village immediately thereafter.

The solution to Monty’s poison dilemma had come to him easily as he lay in bed on New Year’s Eve, reliving his Yule Ball dance with Sibella. Of course he did not need to brew a potion to poison Asquith, who would be drinking something already. He merely needed something toxic to slip in Asquith’s beverage. _—My, but you are thick sometimes_ , he had scolded himself.

He had just enough baneberry juice left in his potion kit to kill a person roughly the size of Asquith Jr., and he set out for Hogsmeade on the second of January with a cheery disposition and a bottle of poison in his pocket.

He picked up a _Daily Prophet_ from the post office as a precaution—it was always nice to have something to hide behind—and made his way to the Three Broomsticks. To his dismay, Asquith was nowhere to be seen among those still reveling in the New Year, and the barmaid he was pursuing did not appear to be there either.

“Excuse me,” Monty said to the young woman who was tending bar, “I don’t suppose one of your friends is around? Pretty girl, a bit short, with curly hair and freckles?” He gave a shy little grin in the hopes the other girl would mistake him for a potential suitor.

“Ah s’ppose ye mean Evangeline Barley?” the barmaid said with a thick Scottish accent. “She’s not warkin’ today, an’ even if she were Ah doubt she’d give ye the time o’ day.”

“Is she spoken for, then?” asked Monty, trying to appear crestfallen.

“She is indeed, an’ by Asquith D’Ysquith, no less. Ye may be cute, but Ah doubt you’ve got the money ’e does.”

“Well, thank you,” Monty said, giving her a nod before adjusting his scarf and shuffling out of the pub.

He walked down the lane to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop in the hope of finding them there instead, and when that proved fruitless, he glanced inside the Hog’s Head, which was all but deserted. Silently cursing his bad luck, he made his way back up the road in the direction of the castle, trying to think of what to do next.

He was staring at the ground and paying little attention to where he was going when he heard the tinkle of a shop bell and almost collided with the couple who emerged from the door.

“Pardon me!” he cried at the same time the young man indignantly snapped, “Do watch where you’re going!”

“Don’t worry, Assy,” the girl said, “I wasn’t jostled at all!”

Monty looked away quickly, not wanting Asquith to recognize him from the train, and indicated that they should go on before him. He pulled the _Daily Prophet_ out of his coat and followed as close as he dared.

“You know what I would absolutely love?” Evangeline sighed. “I would so love to go for a skate! I haven’t been in ages. Is the lake at the school frozen over?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Asquith answered.

“Can we go up and skate? Please?”

“Are you terribly sure? There are likely to be other people there, and half the school can see you out the windows. You wouldn’t prefer somewhere more…private?”

"Oh, Assy!” she laughed, “You’re so droll. I want to go skating, and I don’t care who sees us!”

Monty followed them up to the lake, hoping against hope that Asquith Jr., would leave his flask on the bank for some reason so it could be thoroughly laced with baneberry juice. Asquith and Evangeline breezed through the school gates without a thought, but Monty stopped just outside of them, took out his wand, and performed a Disillusionment Charm on himself. _—Just in case…_

As it happened, Asquith and Evangeline were the only ones on the lake that afternoon. Monty watched them from behind a tree, becoming more nervous by the minute.

 _—Perhaps this was not the best of ideas_ , he said to himself. _—After all, I don’t even know if I’m capable of it. Professor D’Ysquith’s death was hardly premeditated, and arguably not even at my hands. How stupid to carry on planning this as if it were a Sunday picnic…_

His gaze suddenly fell upon Evangeline’s bag, which was lying several yards away. He could see the tip of her wand poking out.

It had never occurred to him to use a wand in the removal of his relatives. The idea of using his own was certainly laughable; a simple _priori incantato_ would reveal the last spell the wand had cast. Monty doubted his ability to perform a Killing Curse anyway. That, he understood, required real hatred, and though he had a burning desire for revenge, that was hardly the same thing. Professor D’Ysquith’s death had been all but accidental.

_—Accidental…_

He drew in a sharp breath as the answer became clear to him. A saw would have been preferable, of course—Muggle methods were always the last thing wizards expected—but a well-placed severing charm would do. Monty crept over to Evangeline’s bag and took her wand in his gloved hand. Surely it would work well enough for one tiny spell…He took his own wand and pointed it at his shoes, concentrating hard and muttering an incantation. Blades appeared under the soles of his boots and disappeared after Monty hit them with another Disillusionment Charm. Stowing his own wand and gripping Evangeline’s tightly, Monty glided out onto the lake.

_—How fortunate Sibella made me practice that spell last year…and teased me until I could skate across the lake without falling on my arse._

Asquith and Evangline had been skating in the same pattern for nearly an hour; all that was necessary was to crack the ice somewhere they were sure to skate over it. Monty made sure to skate so that they always had their backs to him as he considered where best to cast his severing charm.

A rather melancholy feeling began to wash over him. _—That will be the remorse_. At the same time, he felt the same sort of rushing sensation he got when he knew the right answer in class, when Slytherin won a Quidditch game, when he kissed Sibella Hallward…He let the exhilaration overpower his conscience and cast a silent severing charm. The cracking of the ice was masked by a particularly loud giggle from Evangeline.

Monty got off the lake as quickly as he could; his back was still turned when he heard the ice crack further and the shrieks of Asquith and Evangeline as they fell through. He hid behind his tree and listened as they resurfaced several times before finally sinking in exhaustion. When he was sure it was all over, he cast a repairing charm on a broken stick to fool _priori incantato_ and returned Evangeline’s wand to her bag. He vanished the blades under his shoes, tightened his scarf around his neck, and made his way back up to the castle.


	7. The Billywig Keeper

Monty went straight up to his empty dormitory after dinner (from which Asquith D’Ysquith, Jr. had been conspicuously absent) and stared through his bedroom window at the lake where two drowned bodies would be discovered, perhaps that very evening. He did his best to suppress a shudder at the thought.

Evangeline’s death was unfortunate collateral damage; he would have liked to avoid it if at all possible. What a horrible sight her corpse would be, frozen and bloated with lake water…And aside from all that, he was nearly frantic at the idea that he might have left a clue behind, despite all of his efforts to the contrary.

 _—Hush_ , he told himself, driving such musings back into the deep recesses of his mind. _—You’ll drive yourself mad, and we can’t have that. You must finish what you’ve started._ Monty took a deep breath and rose to prepare for bed. _—All things considered_ , _the deed itself was far easier than I expected._

***

The bodies were discovered the next morning, and, much to Monty's relief, the deaths were declared accidental without so much as a sideways glace at foul play.

The loss of Asquith D’Ysquith, Jr. was rather harder on the school than the loss of Ezekiel had been. Asquith had, after all, been there for nearly seven years; he had roommates and teachers and, what was most incomprehensible to Monty, friends. The entire school was ordered to wear black mourning uniforms Asquith, whereas with Ezekiel they had held a sparsely attended candlelight memorial service and considered it done with.

As for Evangeline Barley, she seemed to have no one to mourn for her, a fact that quieted Monty’s mind somewhat.

Eventually the mourning uniform requirement was lifted and the snow began to melt; Quidditch began again and homework piled up. Time hurried Monty away from a crime for which no one suspected him.

He had decided to do away with plotting against the D’Ysquiths for the rest of the school year. Two deaths in the same family at the same school was tragic; more than that, and people would start to ask questions. Nevertheless, he found the blasted family nearly impossible to banish from his mind, which frequently wandered back to his mother’s jewel box and the family tree with the underlined names. He fed his little obsession by reading voraciously about suspicious historical deaths, research that was all-too-easy to pass off as studying for History of Magic.

He was having an in-depth “study session” in the library one windy March night when the door to dispatching the next D’Ysquith opened rather unexpectedly.

It was about ten o'clock when the words of _Mysterious Magical Murders_ began to blur in front of Monty's eyes and he decided it was time for bed. He rose, stretched, and went to return the book to its shelf, which was at the opposite end of the library from his favorite reading spot.

A rather unexpected sight awaited him as he turned a corner in the magizoology section: two Ravenclaw girls, one of whom he recognized as Hayley Barnett, Julia Hallward’s friend from the Yule Ball, had their wands out and were jabbing them rather sharply at the throat of Henry D’Ysquith.

Monty leapt quickly back around the corner he had just turned and flattened himself against a bookshelf, straining to hear what was being said.

“Guess what came in the post this morning, D’Ysquith,” Hayley demanded.

“I—I h-h-haven’t the f-foggiest.”

“Tell him, Marissa.”

“A letter from our mother,” her older sister said, “informing us that you’ve foreclosed on our farm.”

“Which has been in our family for generations,” Hayley added.

“Well that’s hardly m-my concern,” said Henry, who stopped speaking abruptly, probably because the two wand tips digging into his neck were making speech rather painful at the moment.

“Oh shut up,” said Marissa. “Just because you and your sister have had everything you’ve wanted for all of your lives doesn’t give you the right to steal the livelihoods of the rest of us who have to work for a living.”

It was clear to Monty that the girls were spoiling for a nasty fight. Under normal circumstances he would have kept quite out of the way—if other people wanted to curse each other senseless, it was none of his business—but this particular circumstance involved a D’Ysquith, which made it anything but normal. On the one hand, mightn’t it be good to let some harm befall the D’Ysquiths at someone else’s hands? If the Barnett sisters were caught, he would be even farther out of suspicion than he currently was, and if not, well, a D’Ysquith still got roughhoused and for once he was completely innocent. But the thought occurred: _\--What better way to ensure I fall under no suspicion than by coming down on his side?_ It might even give him a chance to become better acquainted with the boy—who, Monty had double-checked after the Yule Ball, was in the direct line of succession—and learn his weaknesses.

Monty tucked his book under his arm and strolled around the bookshelf, back into view of the antagonistic trio. “Dear me!” he  cried as though he had only just discovered them.

Hayley whirled and pointed her wand at him.

“Who’s that?” Marissa asked, not taking her eyes off of Henry.

“A friend of Julia’s older sister. Move along, Navarro, and don’t make any trouble.”

“I could say the same thing to you,” said Monty, stepping forward. “Where’s Madam Hawke?”

“Sleeping draught in her tea; it’s the oldest trick in the book,” snapped Marissa.

 _\--These Ravenclaws certainly have no qualms about library regulations._ “Well, I think it’s rather time to call it a night; what do you say to letting D’Ysquith here go and we’ll all get a nice rest before the Quidditch match tomorrow?”

“What do you say to taking your own wand and shoving it—”

Monty never found out where Hayley Barnett wanted him to shove his wand, as Henry D’Ysquith picked that exact moment to try and escape from where he was pinned between Marissa and a bookshelf. Monty took another step forward as Henry ran behind him and the Barnett sisters let a few curses fly in their direction.

The next thing Monty knew, his body was rigid and paralyzed and the floor was tilting up towards his face at an alarming rate.

Lights exploded in front of his eyes as he hit the ground. He heard the door to the library open and close as the Barnett sisters fled the scene of their mischief, perhaps afraid that Madam Hawke’s sleeping draught was wearing off and that the sound of Monty’s collapse would wake her.

No such event occurred, and just as Monty was wondering if he would have to lie on the library floor all weekend, Henry D’Ysquith muttered the countercurse and Monty regained the use of his limbs.

He sat up, feeling his face for any scrapes or particularly nasty bruises.

“Don’t worry,” said Henry, offering a hand to help him up. “There’s no serious damage. You’re still handsome as ever." He pulled Monty to his feet and, as at the Yule Ball, showed a certain reluctance to let go of his hand. "And thank you, for taking a curse for me.”

“Oh,” Monty shrugged with affected indifference, “any gentleman would have done the same.” _–He seems a decent fellow,_ Monty thought. _It’s a shame he’s in my way._

“I declare I don’t know what their trouble is. They can’t depend on the land for everything. And they couldn’t possibly understand the family business—I’ll foreclose on the whole county if I'm advised to.”

_\--Then again, perhaps not that much of a shame._

“I say,” said Henry, “would you like to go down to the kitchens? We can get a lovely late-night snack—my thank you for your gallantry.”

“Of course,” Monty assented. “I’ve never been down to the kitchens before.”

“Then, my friend, you haven’t lived.”

***

Five minutes in the kitchens was enough for Monty to decide that he was never having another late-night plotting session anywhere else.

“This is amazing,” he told Henry through a mouthful of Bakewell tart. “How do you Hufflepuffs resist the temptation to spend all of your time here?”

“It’s the work ethic, I suppose. Most Hufflepuffs are too motivated to allow themselves much leisure time. I confess I’ve never really understood that, but I mostly keep that sort of thing to myself. I’m the only Hufflepuff in the family, you see, among all those Gryffindors and Ravenclaws…I’m enough of a black sheep as it is.” Henry took a thoughtful sip of tea and shrugged. “So I keep myself occupied with various hobbies—magizoology, Quidditch. I’m the seeker for Hufflepuff, you know.”

“Yes—I remember now, something at the beginning of the year…There was a Ravenclaw girl holding a sign with your name on it. Is that your girlfriend?”

Henry snorted into his tea. “No—my sister, Phoebe.”

“Oh! I was quite mistaken.”

“Yes, I, ah…well, I’m afraid I must say, except for Phoebe, I’ve never been very good in the company of…women. I find them…enigmatic. Men suit me much better.” He laughed nervously.

Monty nodded. The reason for Henry’s interest in him was becoming clear—and it could prove useful. “I understand completely. Men have such a…a natural comradery, a certain…" he paused, as though searching for the right words, "ease of intercourse.” Henry reddened. “Women are so vexing,” continued Monty. “One never knows which way the wind is blowing with them on any given day. I’m sorry, did I just kick you?” he asked as he brushed his foot against Henry’s.

“N-no. Nothing to apologize f-for,” Henry stuttered. “I say, do you think—not tonight, of course—but perhaps sometime—you m-might like to visit my billywig hives?”

“I’m sorry?” _–If that’s a double entendre, it’s certainly not one I’ve heard before._

“Billywigs—they’re these little blue insects with long stingers. Normally they only breed in Australia, but I’ve been having fantastic luck with them here. My largest hives are at home in Salisbury, but Professor Nereus lets me keep a few behind the Care of Magical Creatures hut. I’m doing experiments and research on the uses of their venom.”

“They’re venomous?”

“Oh, a sting only causes some giddiness and temporary levitation, though a wizard in Melbourne provoked so many billywigs into stinging him that he now hovers permanently and cannot stop cackling. They say he’s gone quite mad.”    

 _—Note to self: research protocol for heirs being removed from lines of succession due to madness._

“I say,” Henry said, “instead of bothering with my tiny little hives here at school, would you like to come see the ones at home in Salisbury? You could come for Easter holidays. Or does your family like to vacation together?”

“Not exactly—both of my parents have passed away.”

“What a dreadful shame! But that means you simply must come stay with us; you can’t spend the holidays on your own.”

“There’s something else I haven’t told you.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re related.” He thought he saw Henry’s face fall slightly. “It’s very distant—we share a great-great grandfather, Danforth D’Ysquith.”

“You don’t say! Why haven’t I seen you at any family gatherings?”

“My mother fell in love with a Castilian Muggle who played the piano for society balls at Highhurst and married him against the family’s wishes. They cast her out and never spoke to her again. I only mention it because…well…” Monty hesitated, thoroughly preparing himself for another snobbish rejection at the hands of a D’Ysquith,  “perhaps your parents wouldn’t want to entertain the son of their disgraced cousin.”

“That’s all rot,” said Henry, waving a hand in the air as though shooing away a fly. “And who said anything about my parents being there? They haven’t spent the holidays with us in years.”

“Your sister, then. Would she mind?”

“Phoebe? Don’t worry about her; she’ll be civil enough.”

“In that case, I am most obliged.”

“Oh, excellent!” cried Henry, clapping his hands with glee. “It will be so nice to have someone new around the house! I’ll show you the billywigs and how I harvest their venom, and there’s a lovely little wood nearby that’s pleasant to walk in, and then there’s my sister’s garden…But it is getting late,” he said as Monty stifled a yawn.  

Henry insisted on walking Monty back to the Slytherin common room—“Hufflepuff isn’t playing in tomorrow’s match; I can be up as late as I wish”—and, after Monty gave him a brief hug and thanked him again for the tea and cake, he positively skipped down the corridor.

 _—I am going to regret being out this late when Sibella pounds on the door at seven o’clock in the morning,_ Monty thought as he crept into his dormitory and changed into his pajamas as quietly as he could. _–Rubbish_ , he answered himself, _—this evening was more productive than any I usually spend in the library. Not only do I have a lead on how to depose my next D’Ysquith, I have a personal invitation that will likely enable me to do so…_

Alone in the dark, Monty gave a small, exhausted smile, then collapsed into bed and dreamed about billywigs playing Quidditch.  
  



End file.
